The Seagulls Laughter

by Holly Bidgood

  I would not allow myself to be provoked. I sat with my hands wrapped around the coffee mug, its rim almost touching my lips, and drawing comfort from its warmth I stated flatly that I liked languages, and wished to learn.

  Once more, the man guffawed, alarmingly loudly. ‘Trying to better himself!’ he exclaimed, as though the others present were able to understand his observations – though I could tell from their expressions that this were not the case. ‘The Noble Savage!’

  I was unsure what was meant by this last comment, understood only that it was not an expression of kindness. He took a swig of his own coffee, as if it were beer, and slamming the mug onto the table called arrogantly to Judith, in his own language, for another cup. As she rose to oblige she caught my eye and offered me a look of empathy, of concern and of warning. It would seem the man’s tone and manner required no translating. Wordlessly I tried to convey that there was no need to worry, that I knew what I was doing and with whom I was dealing, but I am not sure that she believed me. I am not sure that I believed myself.

  The visitor’s eyes followed his hostess as she carried out his bidding, then they were upon me again, stripping me bare, to the very bones. ‘I see you’ve made yourself quite at home.’

  ‘Judith is very kind,’ I muttered. A wave of guilt crashed over my head, soaking me once more to the skin and beneath.

  He translated this remark, mockingly, to the woman whom it concerned. She did not indulge his disrespectful tone, only brushed the silver-tinged hair from her face with a prim hand, smoothed down her skirt and sat back down, her expression blank and unreadable.

  I remembered first arriving at the house on the day of the funeral, when I had found the two of them at each other’s throats, screeching, acts abandoned, masks thrown aside. I wondered why the man stayed, demanding hospitality despite the coldness with which he was greeted, despite the blatant wish that he would leave, and the uncomfortable atmosphere that accompanied an unwelcome guest. With this thought, however, my blood turned cold, for could not the same thing be said of myself? Perhaps he stayed for the same reason that I could not leave. Could it be that we had this in common?

  When no response to the man’s remark was forthcoming, he took his coffee, without thanking she who had made it, and with a sneer provided his own rebuttal: ‘She’s a Christian, her god tells her she must be kind; to orphaned, homeless children, even those born outside of civilization. The uneducated, savage ones.’

  Red waves of anger began to lap at my beating heart, in full knowledge that I was being provoked. He was manipulating me into expressing my defence, showing an unpleasant side of myself and rising to the bait.

  ‘So it is her god who allows you into her home; not her.’ I said quietly. If I could draw his attention to the unspoken discomfort that accompanied his presence, then perhaps he would leave when I could not.

  His anger was calm, calculated. I found it terrifying. ‘You are the reason I have been invited into this house,’ he said, voice lowered threateningly: ‘Her god may tell her to offer you kindness, but her heart wants you gone. She hopes I will oblige.’

  ‘But you won’t accept the responsibility,’ I accused.

  ‘And why should I accept responsibility for you?’ he asked disdainfully.

  My teeth clenched, I answered: ‘Because you brought me here.’

  He laughed, the nauseating cackle of the gull, a sound so sudden and piercing that my nerves, already on edge, could not withhold this onslaught and my bones leapt in my skin. Judith looked alarmed and her son winced at the sound, already disgusted, so it seemed, by the tactless man at his kitchen table. He looked as though he would dearly like to strangle the man. He hissed to his mother, but she only shook her head, apparently deterring him. Her lips were pursed, her body was taut, coiled like a serpent ready to strike yet waiting: perhaps for the right moment, or simply exercising painful self-control in a fragile situation. With deft fingers she fiddled with a string of wooden beads on her opposite wrist, rolling and twisting them in quiet distraction, rolling, rolling and twisting. When the cord broke on her self-restraint, who would bear the brunt of her agitation? The beaked interloper, or the dark stranger who could no more speak to defend himself than he could see his own place in the world?

  I ought to take responsibility for myself, this much was true, and could expect this of no one else. Poor Judith, to have this helpless stranger thrust upon her in such a way, a wretched burden with whom she could not even communicate.

  ‘You shouldn’t ask this of her!’ I exclaimed, anger – or fear – bubbling ever closer to the surface, ‘I don’t know why you thought that this would be acceptable.’

  ‘Acceptable!’ he echoed. ‘You talk of this as though it’s a social call? A regrettable turn of events? Just the level of intelligence I would expect from someone like you.’

  Of course this had been his intention, I thought: a pre-meditated intervention, the staged scene of a play in which lives were made to collide. My anger almost dissolved, there and then, into salty self-pity and helpless exhaustion. Slowly I closed my eyes. Heavily I opened them again, and said, perhaps by way of weary defence, ‘She is kind. I try to see the goodness in people.’

  ‘And what about that wretched explorer, eh?’ he spat, ‘have you found the goodness in him, that deceitful bastard? Or are the dead easier to condemn?’

  I looked at him, and he showed his teeth in a grimace of triumph, of covetous knowledge. ‘That man was an arrogant, ignoble little liar,’ he said soberly, evidently savouring the sound of the words. ‘Cavorting with native women, sharing his bed with savages. A man in his position, from a decent family, with a well brought-up, educated wife – it was disgusting. Unforgivable. He may be dead, but the consequences of his actions –,’ this word he spat out as though it were poison, looking pointedly at me, his eyes set with a dark, unsettling glint, ‘– must be borne by the family who survive him. That sort of behaviour does not go unpunished.’

  There passed a laden moment in which no one spoke.

  ‘I see no goodness in you.’ I said quietly.

  He continued as though he had not heard me, though I saw his face redden and knew that I only antagonised him. ‘It is sin enough to be born a savage; worse still to relate to a family of decent, civilised people, that disgraceful fiend notwithstanding. You’ll go the way of your mother, and that’s more than you deserve.’

  I had risen to my feet, fists clenched, hot-headed and sick with provocation. Judith had risen also, anticipated dissention perhaps. In a lowered voice she said quite calmly, ‘I think you should leave.’

  The signal to move had barely reached my feet before I realised that she addressed him, not me. He leapt up, and fiercely pushed his chair aside. He said something that I did not understand, his voice raised unpleasantly. Then he pointed at me, spat, turned on his heel and stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

  The scene swam before my eyes. I thought I might pass out. No one moved; no one spoke. Once the heat from his presence had dissipated, my feet finally sprang into action. I was halfway into my boots, having thrown open the front door – though my exact intention – or destination – was yet unknown, before Judith laid a hand strong with dissuasion upon my shoulder, and closed the door in a way that could be considered compassionate. My head reeled. It was all I could do to submit to her wishes, and instead I tore myself away to the room upstairs, a hotness welling behind my eyes.

  The current of panic coursed through my veins; I was surrounded by feathers, in my eyes, ears and throat, choking me until I feared for my life. Still, through the throbbing of my blood I could hear the low voice of Eqingaleq, singing and chanting, weaving stories into the fabric of my makeshift shelter.

  A-ya-ya-ya...

  Then I was no longer in England, in this unknown and unending city, cowering far above solid ground in a tent thrown together from woollen blankets...

  I found myself in a tent sewn from skin. The warm smell of its heavy, envelop
ing fabric grounded me in the world from which we all must borrow before one day returning to ourselves. I had come to fetch the knife which I had left with my sleeping-skins. By the edge of the water the ice was streaked crimson and black with fresh blood. The narwhal, like the now dormant kayaks, had been hauled ashore where it lay lifeless, this graceful grey haunter of the sea, its great white tusk reminiscent of the mast of a ship keeled over in the grip of the pack ice. A creature almost of myth, it had taken three hunters to take its life. My heart swelled with pride as I recalled the agile glide of my skin kayak over the waves thrown into a tempest by its struggle; the weight of the harpoon gun in my bare hands; the exhilarated cries of the other hunters in the success of the chase.

  I had sharpened my knife the day before, in anticipation, and I had sharpened it well for it cut cleanly into the animal’s blubber with fast, angular strokes. In just a couple of hours the ice was littered with slabs of meat and blubber; my hands, like those of my companions, were stained red up to the elbows, shocking in the sun’s fierce glare. Blood smeared the front of my overalls.

  Qallu cut small pieces of the whale’s nourishing skin and we chewed contentedly, savouring the goodness of this mattak: I could taste it now, feel its toughness between my teeth. Never before had I tasted it so fresh.

  The world around us had fallen into a tranquil stillness: serenity in the wake of a life taken, a struggle ended. The only sound was that of our voices and laughter, carried upwards and lost in the vastness of the broken pack ice and the blue, empty sky. My cheeks stung from the cold.

  I had feared that the son of a white man would find no solace with those whose arctic blood ran pure. But at that moment I knew who my people were. If only it could have lasted; if only I could have stayed forever in that most wonderful, archaic of places where each life draws sustenance from another and the world moves in harmony. If only I had not had to return home to find my own mother – loveless, lovelorn stranger – sprawled, like the narwhal, on the cold floor. Intoxicated up to the eyeballs, she stared at nothing for her eyes were clouded over and her body lay lifeless.

  This creature did not speak to me of graceful, ancient beauty.

  Slowly I slipped back into the weight of the present. As the final, painful stop in my train of thought was banished to the dark recesses of my mind I breathed again, strangely at peace. My breath was no longer ragged, the beat of my heart no longer frenzied to the point of collapse. I felt light, but not light-headed. The house appeared to be still and quiet, reflecting the calm following the storm, or so it seemed in the blanket den of my making. For the first time since my arrival I appreciated that the noise of the roads could not be heard from the back of the house, in which my guestroom was situated; the birds, too, did not sing. Darkness must have fallen – I had not noticed.

  As once before, my solitude was encroached upon by a rap at the door. I wondered if it might be Judith come to request, after all, that I pack my bag and leave. I formed an apology on my tongue before I had even opened the door, only to find Michael on the other side. A bizarre demon with his curtained face half hidden in shadow, he looked as though he, too, had formulated an opening sentence in which he had now lost faith, and instead gaped at me somewhat gormlessly. Eventually, with a shrug of his shoulders he mumbled: ‘Brought you a drink.’ He thrust a glass into my hand and proceeded, before I could protest or politely decline, to fill it half-full from a bottle of dark, strong-smelling liquid. Having filled his own glass, he then murmured something indecipherable, but which I took as a toast, as he slammed his glass against my own, threw his head back and downed the entire measure in one enormous draught. He smacked his lips; his eyes watered. Pouring himself another he indicated that I drink up. I did not want to appear impolite: I took as brave a swig as I could manage, spluttering a little as the liquid burned the back of my throat. Once the overpowering taste had dissipated there spread a languorous, comforting warmth to my toes and fingertips. Colour rose to my cheeks, and I downed the rest.

  Michael, though he still wore the guarded non-smile with which he had greeted me, seemed pleased. He raised the bottle of spirits, as though acknowledging its apparently medicinal properties, and with a curt nod of the head was gone. My head reeled. I closed the door and fell into the tent with a sigh, and the veil of sleep engulfed me with a suddenness I could not fight. With my last flicker of consciousness there drifted into my head a hazy afterthought, one that seemed to have forgotten to rear its head when surely it must have been conjured: how strange it seemed that, of all the photographs in the explorer’s house, there was not one of the Arctic.

  13

  Rasmus

  Rasmus watched silently, barely breathing as Ketty trimmed the wick of the blubber lamp with the blade of a small bone knife. Outside the evening sun cast its light on the melting snow and glowed against the tiny, rectangular windows. In the murky darkness of the hut, Ketty replaced the wick around the edge of the lamp’s bowl. Rasmus kept his eyes fixed on her as she struck a match and held the flame to the wick. Time seemed to stand still; then, with a splutter, the twined grass took the flame. Ketty blew out the match, looked up to Rasmus and smiled, triumphantly and joyfully.

  Her skin glowed gold in the new light of the blubber lamp, her cheeks round and hued with pink. Her eyes were dark, inviting.

  ‘Thank you,’ Rasmus said hoarsely, when he had found his voice.

  For a moment longer they held each other’s gaze.

  ‘You are welcome,’ Ketty whispered.

  After she had made her goodbyes, Rasmus saw Birdie follow her with his watery eyes as she made her way out of the hut. He did not like the way the man looked at her.

  The bright nights of early summer were playing havoc with the rhythms of Rasmus’s body. He could not sleep, and instead passed long hours picking his way along the shoreline under the strange face of the midnight sun, his head aching and his thoughts in a whirl. He knew he was growing restless. Distracted. He had perhaps allowed too much time in Angmagssalik to prepare, he thought; he was anxious to set out on their journey across the ice cap, so long anticipated. Yet at the same time there was a wilful part of him that did not want to leave. His stomach twisted at the thought. This ambivalence towards his journey worried him: he was about to embark on the adventure he had dreamed of since he was a young lad poring over pictures of famous feats of polar exploration. It was the trip of a lifetime, the culmination of his life’s work and ambition. And yet… he felt as though something within him had become disconnected.

  Sometimes, on his midnight walks, Rasmus would end up joining in with the youngsters’ many games of football in the lingering light. He would lose himself, then – caught up in a glorious sense of belonging, in the idea that he was free.

  14

  Malik

  The following morning, I awoke early with a fierce headache and a strange feeling of calm conscience. For the first time since my arrival, I joined Eqingaleq at the window. I pulled back the garish flowered curtains that I had determinedly kept closed to obscure the urban reality which they concealed, ripping open the same crack through which Eqingaleq’s eyes had peered apprehensively.

  I must face my fate, I said matter-of-factly. All hopes and expectations of returning to my homeland had left along with the beaked man. Grimly, Eqingaleq nodded, for the thought surely had been his own. The contours of his face – creased in solemnity – alarmed me a little, so unbefitting did their contortions seem on the canvas of his usually open and honest countenance.

  I’m scared, I stammered in the shadow of his graveness, which mirrored that of my own heart. Scared that I might do the wrong thing. I could accept my fate but for I knew what it was. What if I take the wrong path – one that was not laid out for me? What happens then?

  He smiled softly. You cannot choose your fate, only guide it. No path is wrong.

  But why am I here? I wanted to know. There is no path back for me now. He will not take me back; Judith will not allow me to leave wh
en I have nowhere else to go: I am meant to be here.

  I gestured at my surroundings: the walls by which I was enclosed; the endless labyrinth of buildings, streets and strangers.

  But why? What am I supposed to do? My voice threatened to break.

  You will know, said Eqingaleq. The weight of years – thousands of years – settled momentarily on his brows, before his ancient face broke into a wide smile and he indicated the clear sky above the roofs of the surrounding houses. I looked with him, and saw that the morning heavens were streaked with purple and gold. Even in this world, he observed, there can be found beauty; even when the source cannot be seen.

  ◆◆◆

  The beak-nosed man returned to the house that evening. In the darkest corner of my blanket tent I cowered, sick with anxiety, as I heard his voice downstairs. Its high-pitched tone resounded throughout the house and echoed painfully in my head, his words unintelligible. I prayed silently that he would not seek me out in my corner of the house. I did not have the strength to hold my ground against him. I did not know what it was that he wanted from me.

  Thankfully he did not venture upstairs, nor did he linger for long. I heard the beating of his great white wings as he left.

  I longed to ask Judith who he was, this man who had brought me to her home and into her life.

  Every evening, I helped Judith in the kitchen. While striving to make myself useful, I would ask her the names of things – the different vegetables as I cut them into chunks for the soup, the cutlery and kitchen utensils, a squirrel that appeared on the window ledge – anything that came into sight. Sometimes – often in fact – I would have to ask her to repeat the word more than once, or to remind me a few minutes later, the sounds having already slipped my mind. And I would repeat it over and over again, slowly and clearly, syllable by syllable until the sounds fitted comfortably around my tongue. Once it became apparent that my hostess did not at all mind these impromptu lessons – as I had feared she would – I dared even to ask her for full sentences, abstract notions and ideas that lay beyond the realms of our immediate culinary environment. I was filled with a great warmth to be able to utter the words I think that… even if the thought must remain incomplete. For this brought me, at least, one step closer to the ability to communicate, to relate. As soon as I was able I would ask about my father – her husband – for in this way I felt that my path would be made clear. I did not wish to believe that my journey had been or that it would continue to be meaningless.